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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985517">Pulling Through</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SayuriVampire/pseuds/SayuriVampire'>SayuriVampire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A gift for a friend, Blood, Confusion, Diana is a badass and she owns it, Diana is a friends OC, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Experiments, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attack, Physical Abuse, Sendak is a bastard and we're not afraid to shout it, a little dark but I thought it would fit her firts years, and that's it, badly written trauma, mixed race racism, no, this one for you Kiri, we do not care how fluffy he his, you come at my kids you deserve all the worlds shit and place in satan torture chember</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:03:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,468</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SayuriVampire/pseuds/SayuriVampire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She woke to the sharp lights and muted voices. Hey eyes blurred with liquids and her limbs numb. She tried moving them, willing them to inch a little closer to her left, just a tad, so that she knew she had them.<br/>(Diana wakes alone and doesn't understand. It does not go better from there.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pulling Through</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosAki/gifts">ChaosAki</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So this one-shot is my first try on this style of writing and got born out of boredom and spite  so I'm really sorry for all the mistakes. Also it is my first work in quite a while so all feedback would be appreciated. :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She woke to the sharp lights and muted voices. Hey eyes blurred with liquids and her limbs numb. She tried moving them, willing them to inch a little closer to her left, <em>just a tad,</em> so that she knew she <em>had </em><em>them. </em>Nothing listened. Everything stayed still. Boneless. And so, so... <em>useless. </em> She didn’t understand. She tried looking again. Past the liquid. Past the stinging lights and the strange, transparent <em>thing </em>before her. All she could make out were shapes of pinks and purples and blacks.  </p><p>Moving.  </p><p>Watching.  </p><p>Speaking.  </p><p>None of it to her. None of it even caring that she was there. She wanted to shout but she couldn’t find the voice or strength to do so. What? Why? How? What was it? Why couldn’t she move? How did she even get here? She tried again. And again. Again. <em> Again. </em> <b> <em> Again. </em> </b> </p><p>One of the shapes saw. Something eased in her. Lighter. Freerer. She thought, now, she will be freed. Of the liquid. Of this strange <em> thing </em> holding here. Constraining her. The shape came closer. Eyes more vibrant and colder than the light watching her from under the hood. They leveled her with a look so devoid of anything <em> sentient </em>she thought she lost all the ability to breath, like she even had any to begin with in this thing. Like it was her decision. The liquid began changing. It’s colour becoming lilac, its smell getting sharper and with it her mind fogged till it was nothing but endless dark. </p><p>(later, she will realize how naïve she was, how much hope she had without even knowing <em> what hope was, </em>young and new and naïve, naïve, naïve </p><p>never again </p><p>never again) </p><hr/><p> She came to on a cold table. Lights more insistent that before assaulting her eyes endlessly. Bright. Sharp. Cold. She closed her eyes, unable to watch. To focus. Mind still a foggy mess. Half asleep. She changed her approach. She tried moving sure that again nothing will happen. Then she felt a twitch. Once. Twice. Delight. That was the feeling that gripped her heart firmly and squeezed in ecstasy. She tried again. Firmer. More insistent. She felt something biting into her skin. Bruising. Fraying her wrist. The cry of pure agony startled her past the pain. Frightening. She didn’t understand. What was that? From where that came from? She strained her ears. Felt them move. She heard nothing. Calmer, she tried again. More force, more desperation. Something snapped. Her hand went lousy. She looked at it. Seeing it for the first time. Purple patches of something soft (fur, her mind supplied bare seconds later, still tired and disconnected) on equally purple skin, dark nearly black bruises adoring her wrist, lilac skin peeling off with blue, blue, <em> blue </em> <em> blood </em> around...  </p><p>...around restrains.  </p><p>Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath came sharper, impatiently breaking from her lungs. She became lightheaded, nerves fried, and she pulled and pulled and pulled and <em> pulled. </em> Something snapped. Her legs and arm breaking free. Her limbs dripping blue, blue, <em> blue </em> droplets on to the table. The pain so vivid, so overwhelming she couldn’t move. She felt something wet on her cheeks. Warm. She scooped it with her tongue. It tasted salty. She tried taking it in her hand and watched, fascinated, when the clear liquid mixed with blood on her palms. The dark, thick liquid becoming bright and running down her hands on to the cold surface under her. Tears. That what it was. She was crying. Was is from pain, panic or desperation? She wondered idly what it meant for her. Was she weak because she cried? Something in her brain screamed <em> yes. </em> She didn’t focus on that voice. <em> No time. </em>Another part of her insisted. She listened to that. She tried to move. She nearly doubled in pain. More tears running down her face. Focus. Breath. Prepare. Try again. </p><p>Deep breath.  </p><p>In.  </p><p>Out. </p><p>In.  </p><p>Out.  </p><p>Repeated like mantra, latching on to it. Willing it to be enough. Channel pain into focus. Her mind supplied. <em> Use </em> it. <em> Own </em> it. She breathed again and <em> jumped. </em> Her legs hitting the floor with a resounding crack, nearly giving out under her, not used to holding all of her up. <em> Not prepared </em>. No matter.  </p><p>She can do it.  </p><p>She <em> will </em>do it.  </p><p>She gritted her teeth, her hand holding onto the table bending it out of shape, she didn’t notice. She squinted her eyes, trying to ignore the pain while her legs stopped shaking, gaining confidence with every passing second. She didn’t notice. She strained her ears, tuning into the sound of machinery and her own calming breaths as her body gained strength.<em> She didn’t notice. </em> To focused she was on willing the pain to go away. Willing her wound to close. The blood to stop. The pain to disappear. When it did, that, she did notice. </p><p>She raised her head, her eyes taking in the machinery before. Right side proved truly boring with big, clunky cubes of something that she did not know anything about. The other side thought. It... It was different. With container after container after container greeting her on the left wall, all of them adored with monitors. All of them full of... of something. Some blobs floating in a green sludge, so bright and fluorescent it provided a stark contrast to the muted purples, reds and pinks of the lab it. Inviting. She moved, chains clacking on the floor step after step. She passed by them blob after blob till they started gaining some shape.  </p><p>She switched her eyes to the monitors thinking, hoping that they would give her a clue. Help her understand. But all they give her were strings of nonsensical numbers and graphs. She sighed disappointed averting her eyes. And stopped. Was that her? Was the first thing that crossed her mind. Her focus solely on the surface before her. A surface with a face with lilac skin and purple patches of fur. With dark grey pupils looking from yellow sclera. Witch big fluffy, pointed ears atop furred head. She raised a hand to her face and watched as the reflection mimicked her movements. Her stained hands smearing her skin and fur with blue, blue, <em> blue </em>blood. She gasped, turning her head right and left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Trying to see everything. High cheekbones. Sunken eyes. Full lips tinted a darker shade of lilac than the rest of her skin. Wide forehead. Face shaped like a heart and furless parts smooth to touch. Fur a light purple and short and soft. She squeaked delighted touching it again and again coating it with more blood. She didn’t care. It was hers anyway and the feeling was too good to her sensitive hands to pass on. Her eyes caught the metallic glint of restrains on her wrists. She stilled.  </p><p>Breath. </p><p>In. </p><p>Out. </p><p>In. </p><p>Out. </p><p>Right. No time. <em> Move </em> . She let her hands fell and stepped away, giving the flat, polished surface last lingering look before moving on. She doesn’t know where she is or what’s going on. There is no time to waste. She needed to figure it out. She passed another tube focusing yet again on the shapes that looked vaguely more and more human after each one. It’s not right. It’s wrong. Human shapes should not be there. <em> Should not. </em> She thought with conviction that caught her by surprise. The feeling strong and persistent, nagging at her mind with something just at the edge of her understanding, something that her mind screams she should <em> know </em>. She reached the last tube prepared to see another vaguely humane blob without any differentiating features.  </p><p>She didn’t expect lilac skin and patches of purple fur. </p><p>She didn’t expect sharp grey eyes, feral and hungry yet so similar looking right back at her from the tube. </p><p>She screamed. </p><p>A toe curling, empty scream that shook her so deeply because it was her voice. Now. Then. That frightening, agonizing wail belonged to <em> her. </em> And the realization was as deeply disturbing as it was startling. Her legs gave up on her, knees scraping against industrial steel floor and blue, blue, <em> blue </em>blood spilling afresh. Too petrified. Too focused. Too lost to even notice another injury blossoming on her body. </p><p>She stayed like that, frozen, for what felt like hours. She didn’t notice when they walked in. Or when they injected her with a mix of paralytic and sleeping drugs. Or when they dragged her from the floor back on the table. After a while she didn’t notice anything at all. Just black.  </p><p>(back then, that realization that she wasn’t normal was too much for her, to shocking, too <em> raw, </em>for her fried mind to understand the implication of, to think past... </p><p>pain </p><p>shock </p><p>betrayal </p><p>past the numbness,  </p><p>she spends weeks in the lab, tested, probed, tortured, the novelty of her being like that thing in a tube fades in obscurity of agony and more blood, she doesn’t understand why they are doing that only that she is <em> strong, fast, </em> that she heals too <em> quickly, </em> they mutter and mutter and mutter and the test don’t stop till suddenly, they <em> do </em> </p><p>she learns she’s the last, only one that survived, all her siblings to weak or to feral, <em> useless </em> </p><p>in her darkest, deepest corners of mind she sometimes wishes quietly that she was weak too </p><p>at least then it all would end) </p><hr/><p>She stands rim rod straight, unseeing eyes counting the speck of dust in the air.  </p><p>Waiting.  </p><p>Counting.  </p><p>Remembering. </p><p>After weeks in the labs she was given to a general in need of a slave? servant? toy? pet? She truly doesn’t have a definition of what Sendak wanted from her. </p><p>Sometimes it was to teach her how to fight, blades and knives flying, marring her skin with more and more and more scars and spilling her blood on the floor. But she was a good student. Caught on quickly. Gave as good as she gets. Shortly, she wasn’t the only one bleeding. Sharp blade missing her by millimeters. Steel clanking against each other, sparks flying through the room. Her sword nicking armor. Those were the rare moments that Sendak looked kind of proud, mumbling about superiority of Garla’s blood. About how shockingly strong she was for an inbreed scum. The happiest he ever got. </p><p>Other times she was his messenger. Scouring through the base to deliver messages that he could easily sent. Always within a time constrains. It amused him when she failed to find the one that he sent her too. Pleased him greatly too. Finally, an excuse to beat her, one the scientist could not protest. After all, it is garlan nature to punish failure with a lesson, hers just so happens to include fists and even more blood. </p><p>There were also times when he took her on field missions with him. Always in remote places. Always when rebellion was involved. So, she knew her place. So, she knew how <em> good </em>she have it. Thought and protected by the empire as she was. On a mission like that was when it happened for the first time. When her hands where soaked in a blood that wasn’t <em>hers </em>. </p><p>(She remembers running, her soul and heart alive with a <em> hunt </em> . Eager to pounce.  Her pry was quick and agile and moving, moving, <em> moving. </em> Just. Out of her reach. By seconds. By a one startled breath. She remembers laughing. Her teeth baring in excitement, a low growl setting in her throat, its vibration propping her further, faster, <em> faster </em> . It was just one rebel. From a race she didn’t care enough about to remember the name off, just the smell. Strong, musty, overbearing for her heightened senses. The stench of green pus like substance that was its blood coating her knife, darkening her hands. It was sticky. Clogging her gauntlets, refusing being cleaned. She was kneeling there, by the body with its throat slit and its limbs burned by the explosions which he was the last survivor of. Just kneeling and cleaning, cleaning, <em> cleaning. </em>But the blood still clung to her gauntlets, that disgusting stench assaulting her nostrils.  </p><p>She stood up.  </p><p>She stumbled.  </p><p>She <em> run </em>.  </p><p>She didn’t look back. </p><p>When she made it to the ship Sendak was waiting, displeasure clear on his face till he noticed the blood. He laughed. He praised. He ordered that she'll be given whatever she want. Soldier just wanted to be clean, she said. His face soured. He never praised her again.) </p><p>The worst, however, was when he was angry. His cheeks and neck blotched dark purple, pupils narrowing into slits, hands trembling. He was pacing the room like a caged beast, just waiting for a smell of fear or blood or her to <em> pounce </em> . And he did. Often. Muscle alive and quick as he moved, his body more of a force of nature than a living thing. His strikes where always <em> quick </em> and <em> sharp </em> and <em> strong </em> and <em> relentless </em>. With time she learned how to evade them, how to roll with them. The amount of damage minimized till it was barely noticeable, just a bruise here or there. It would stay like that for months, until that faithful night he pulled his blade on her outside designated training rooms. And slashed. She didn’t dodge, she didn’t beg or plead. She pulled hers. </p><p>Next day she was given up, becoming a gladiator. She never looked back. </p><p>(looking back at the time she spent with Sendak, she can say she was an amusing pet, laying down when beaten, biting and chasing when asked, barking at a command, till she bit the owner, that is, her blade, blocking, slashing, blocking, blocking, slashing, stabbing, slashing and stabbing again and then she slashed his right eye scarring him and blinding it, for Sendak a wound of shame, for her an accomplishment to be proud of </p><p>that was not the last time they crossed blades, but the one that will always bring her the most pride, the scar visible for all, given to the proud garlan general by an inbreed female <em> runt, </em> by a <em> cub) </em> </p><hr/><p>Her time in the pits was nothing short of boring. Wake up. Eat. Fight. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. An endless pattern of clanking steel, busted lips and fresh blood coating her blade. </p><p>She never lost. </p><p>It started a lot of rumors. Other slaves get out of her way terrified of her soaking blade or sharp, vicious grin. Teeth bared and sharp and <em> ready </em>.  </p><p>They left her alone. </p><p>For all the time spent in the pits in one of the farthest edges of empire, she doesn’t remember even one meaningful interaction between her and the rest of fighting slaves. She was too barbarous. Too cold. Too <em> garlan </em>. For them to approach her.  </p><p>It was ok in her books. Good, even. She finally had peace. No more orders. No more stilled robotic conversations. No more pretending.  </p><p>It was <em> fine </em>.  </p><p>She was <em> fine </em>. </p><p>Now, if only she could believe it. </p><p>(she ignored the pitying looks of some of the older slaves, tried and wary and understanding that there was something broken and fried at the edges in her, something hollow yet still looking, still waiting, even now she truly didn’t know for <em>what</em>) </p><hr/><p>After all the years she still does not remember anything special about this day till it suddenly <em> was </em> . The same morning routine of breakfast and a couple fights in the pits. Infirmary. Watching the pathetic excuse of squabbles some of the slaves called fights, screams of the crowd and clank of steel. Smell of fresh spilled blood and urine. Still the same disgusting bullshit she had to live with every day. Boring. She thought, sitting cross-legged on the floor, bored eyes analyzing every fight and thinking how to do it better, quicker, more efficient but, more importantly, less bloody. It's still a bitch to clean. Mace striking someone in the head, brain matter and blood spilling on the floor. Another fight ended. She sighed. So many wasted moves, so many unnecessary swings. How can they fight so long and still be so <em> useless </em>? It was beyond her understanding.  </p><p>The Pit was cleaned quickly, and a loud gong announced another fight. From the right corner stumbled a brutish, muscle mass with four limbs and beady eyes holding a double-edged axe in his hand. From the left a fairly small (though not as tiny as her), willow thing with a helmet on his head and a sword in his hand. The odds did not look good for the willowy thing, she thought, sparing the arena a last glance and laying down for a nap. No one would touch her here. No one would <em> dare </em>. </p><p>She relaxed, ready to sleep through evening fights and to get up for the final battle of which she would be a winner, as always. The repeating clank of steel calming after spending her whole existence in battle of any kind, she was drifting away when the shocked and outraged cries of public stirred her right back up. Displeased, she looked at what was the reason for the commotion, her eyes instantly finding the bloodied muscle mass at the feet of willowy fighter. He stood proud, ready and unscathed. His blade dripping with blood and ready to give the finishing blow when a sudden whirring sound echoed around the pits and the willowy thing was surrounded.  Three fighters all fresh with weapons ready and aimed at him. They did not stand a chance. Faster than anything that she seen in this arena slaves were disarmed and laying bloodied on the floor. The complete silence that surrounded the arena was deafening. Everyone was holding their breaths, anticipation crawling like snakes in our guts eager and ready to spring. Alive. Wanting. The Gladiator lowered his sword and looked in the direction of control box, helmet still on his head. </p><p>“Bring me your champion.” Velvety voice matched his presence but not his swift, monstrous fighting style, sharp, cold and efficient. No. Warm, velvety voice did not fit such a ferocious spirit. Not such a sharp blade. But it fit someone who manipulates and hides and rules. Someone who she would like to crash. She bared her teeth. It was going to be fun. </p><p>(She doesn’t remember the fallowing fight that much. It starts to become a pattern, huh. She knew she went into the pit. She knew she faced him. Battle more of a dance with blades than a typical brawl seen in the pits. Thrust, parry, block, block, parry, slice, thrust, thrust, stab, block, parry. And the dance went on and on and on. Her skin littered with more and more cuts, blood flowing sluggishly painting her lilac skin blue, blue, <em> blue </em>. Her smile sharp. Her eyes dancing. She didn’t remember when was the last time that she truly had a challenge. When she truly had to push through pain and discomfort and exhaustion to land a single blow. It was exhilarating. It was addicting. It was powerful. It was blinding. Enough that she didn’t notice the downright slash till it was too late. Her blade landed a couple feet to the right of her, her fable tries at protection overbalanced her, making her fall, his blade instantly at her throat. </p><p>She lost. </p><p>She couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across her lips.) </p><p>Public fallen silent unable to comprehend theirs champion defeat. The blade at her throat didn’t quiver, its holder standing there judging her, measuring to a standard she has no hopes of figuring out. She didn’t move, she knew she was defeated, and she never was a fun of underhanded tactics that a lot of the slaves preferred. She never needed them. She’s not going to change now. After a breath the blade was lowered, and the man crouched before her. His other hand went to the helmet removing it, white locks spilling down his back. Blue pupils in yellow sclera looking at her, lilac skin and sharp cheekbones. Suddenly she didn’t know how to breath. He smiled, sharp teeth peaking of the corners of his mouth. </p><p>“Would you like to leave with me?” He said voice even smoother outside its artificial coffins.” I’m looking for strong fighters willing to change the world.” An invitation. A question. A choice. Who was she to protest? </p><p>She said <em> yes </em>. </p><p>(that day still was her fondest memory, even years later, after she met a lot more people than she loved outside of Lotor, after long, blissful nights in her lover's arms, hours upon hours among her friends, gentle hugs and comforting hands, it still was the one thing she couldn’t ever bear to lose, after all, it was the start of her road, the proud general, the reckless fighter, she could not have become those where it not for Lotor finding her it the pits) </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For all of you who made it to the end, congrats! If you have any questions you can find me here: https://gosayurichan.tumblr.com/ and my amazing friend for whom I wrote this here: https://chaosaki.tumblr.com/<br/>It's just a one-shot so there is no planned continuation at the moment but it is not a closed universe so there might at some point appear something else here ;) Hope you liked it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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